Sansa in the Den
by Bookworm-of-Ravenclaw
Summary: a reflection of Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North


Sansa in the Den

The Tale of Sansa Stark, Queen in the North

There once was a little northern girl who longed to live in the south.

Sansa Stark of Winterfell she is called (Little Bird, the southern queen chirps to her face, but it will be the _Caged Winter Bird_ whispered behind her back in her disastrous days in the Red Keep, but one day they will learn she is not a bird but a wolf).

The little northern girl glares sullenly at the snow.

_I wonder how the warmth of the southern sun feels on my porcelain skin_, the little girl thinks dreamily.

(When this northern girl suffers from the heat of the south and the burn of the southern sun and the cruelty of the southern people, her skin has turned from porcelain to ivory to steel.)

She dreams and wishes and _yearns_ for the familiarity of Winterfell, the snow and cold and winter, seemingly anything remotely _Stark_ surrounds her fantasies, including the images of her beloved family: the Starks, Stark wolves, a Stark bastard, and a Stark ward.

Without further ado, she is raised to be the perfect northern (_southern_) lady and worships the Old Gods (but conforms to the prayers of the Seven).

Just like her mother.

Her beautiful southern born mother, whom she resembles in looks and demeanor, fills her head with tales of knights and chivalry and epic love.

She falls to the seduction of the south (and years later, she learns from her mistakes; Starks are kneelers to winter, never summer).

Her mother failed to tell her that all those stories are lies.

(Later in life, Sansa will forgive her mother, but she does not ever fill her children's minds with silly stories. When she informs her brave and gentle and strong lord husband, his solemn face looks even grimmer as he nods in agreement. He too had fallen to the lull of heroes.)

She is still a Stark.

She is northern, no matter how much the silly little girl who never learned had wished differently.

Sansa finally opens her eyes and she sees and she watches and she learns.

When the south ruins her, a She-wolf of Winterfell is reborn.

She remembers her father's proud smile as she learns an old song of the north in the old tongue from Old Nan.

Sansa takes great pride that she speaks the old tongue better than Arya (who is constantly praised by the northmen for her Stark looks, the wildness of the wolf's blood in her veins, and for being Lyanna Stark reborn; never is Sansa praised as a Stark, only as Catelyn Tully's beautiful and dutiful daughter).

Sansa is northern _too_ and she yearns for northern compliments despite her love for the south (at these times of insecurity, she thinks about the scornful looks from some of the northerners at mother's ambition to marry her south).

A week before all their lives are forever disrupted by the arrival of a king in need of a Hand, she converses in the old tongue with the semi-fluent Jon (who is the only one who bothers to help Sansa with her pronunciations and the meaning of the words; the encouragement from her half-brother makes her love him even more because it definitely takes a lot of patience and skill to counsel the likes of her, but mother would be disappointed, so she smiles and says nothing).

She remembers the sour pinch on her mother's face when her precious Sansa dares to speak a northern language with a northern lord's bastard son at the dinner table without talking to her highborn family.

Every single member of her family shows their displeasure at their mother's frosty attitude towards Jon in such a northern _Stark_ way, her lady mother recoils (and Sansa remembers her father smiling proudly at her).

It is when the children bristle at their mother's continued rudeness and her lord husband levels a steely look at her, it is Sansa's cool tone that shuts the Lady of Winterfell up.

"Our pack grieves for the loss of our solemn wolf heading north to the Wall."

(Sansa does not know—until much _later_ in life—how much Jon cherishes this memory in his heart and how this memory with his lovely, unusually defiant half-sister, and the stern words spoken towards her lady mother guides Jon during his darkest days; _how little they know of us_, she thinks mournfully).

When she is a prisoner of the Red Keep, she seeks solace in the godswood by praying to the old gods in the old tongue with a newfound respect, hoping the gods will take pity on her.

The old gods are harsher than snowstorms and crueler than icy winds, she thinks, and just as bitter as the winter winds. And like the north, the old gods remember.

But the northern girl knows she is so far south and so far away from the north for the old gods to even _hear_ her prayers (_but she pretends pretends pretends anyway_).

Her father's head is chopped off on the bloody sept steps. Her faith in the seven breaks in the south.

So Sansa Stark seeks comfort in the old gods in a foreign land, and she realizes the Seven never offered her anything at all.

It was only reasonable for her to go south, so she could wear the prettiest dresses, sing the prettiest songs, recite the prettiest poetry, and marry the prettiest southern knight.

There once was a northern girl cloaking herself as a southern lady with the politest manners and the prettiest smile—and her dreams of the south was answered.

She rode south with her betrothed, a pretty prince with golden hair and sweet green eyes (_oh how she loved her gallant Prince and couldn't wait to marry him and become the queen and be beloved by all and she would have wealth and prestige and she would proudly give her dearest husband beautiful golden-haired_ _lion cubs_—not once did she think of having striking, dark-haired fawns).

The South had been her dream since she was a young girl, not once did she think that her fancy for the South would cost her a head (and _destroy_ her too).

On the steps of a bloody Sept and her father's head on a pike, Sansa Stark soon learned she was just a silly little girl.

Though she would go through countless hardships, Sansa Stark learned the hardest lesson in life was during her days in King's Landing.

The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.

Though beaten and bloody, Lady Sansa of House Stark stared up at the (_harsh and cruel and monstrous_) boy-king with a carefully constructed mask to hide her real feelings through politeness and courtesies—the faux face of womanly courtesy, for she cannot allow others to see her weaknesses.

(_most days she dreamed of death, her father's, her brothers', her sister's, her countrymen, the queen's, the king's, even her own._).

As a well-placed punch landed on her stomach under the orders from the king, her mind sought for solace to a safe haven to drive out the pain of the hit and force out the sounds of the mockery from those at court.

Her family (_FatherMotherRobbAryaBranRickonJon_) and Winterfell (_comfortsafetyhome_) and wolves (_Lady_,_ oh Lady Lady Lady_) lingered in her mind and heart these days.

Sansa will forever remember and cherish the memory of playing in the snow with her family on her eleventh name day, her favorite name day (these memories will soon comfort her in the darkest of days she has to endure).

Sweet, daring Bran climbing above them from the trees and walls just to peck everyone with snowballs. Her lovely stern-faced mother yelling at him to get down, too much of a lady to curse his Flint blood; everyone had laughed when her mother's perfectly constructed snowball had thumped the back of Bran's head, which caused him to declare war against his own mother. Her mother had received the assistance of her ward to pummel snowballs at the boy climbing higher and higher and higher.

Her mind further supplied the images of wild, brash Arya shoving snow in her direction, so Sansa would trip into the slushy, dirty snow. She remembered a little boy wilder than her sister launching himself at Arya to knock her down into her own snow fort just to protect his oldest sister. Rickon with his breathless laughter had laughed himself silly—and the rest of his family had joined—at the astonished look on Arya's long face.

(_Wonderful and kind and honorable_) Father, with his solemn eyes and seldom smiles, supported a look of mirth as he watched Jon and Robb hit each other with a friendly fierceness before they teamed up against Theon, who preceded to convince Sansa to be on his team because _a little revenge against siblings never hurt_, he had said with smirk (_oh gods she wishes things turned out differently for him, she wishes wishes wishes_).

She had laughed and smiled that day.

Now, as she recalls this memory, she stares emotionlessly ahead at her wedding feast as the queen mocks her and the king torments her and her lord husband drunkenly ignores her and the court laughs at her.

There once was a pretty golden girl (_The Light of the West_, they cheer) who grows into a beautiful lioness and becomes _the_ queen.

There once was a jealous self-proclaimed mockingbird (_Littlefinger_, they mock) who desires the love of a trout-turned-mother-wolf.

There once was a lion prince born under the guise of a stag (_The Mad Bastard King_, they whisper) who grew up cruel and monstrous, and his actions lead to him being poisoned at his wedding by the schemes of a thorny queen.

The wolf-girl suffers from the mad lioness queen, the mad bastard lion king, and the mad manipulative mockingbird, and the she-wolf bests them all at their game of thrones.

There once was a stupid little girl with traitor's blood who learned to survive in the lion's den.

There once was a bastard daughter made of stone who learned to survive in the Vale.

The little dove fluffed her feathers and fixed her broken wing.

She shed her fake bird skin, and Lady Sansa of House Stark howled like the wolf she is.

And the north rallied behind her.

Sansa Stark never ventures south again.

Her father took her by the hand in the godswood to teach her about her northern roots. They prayed in front of the Heart tree to the Old Gods. She finds comfort sitting by her father beneath the tree, and she makes it a habit to do as much as possible with her father.

She idolized her father, for he was the bravest and noblest man of honor. When she was not with her septa or Mother, she follows her father around like a faithful knight.

Under the stern eyes of Ned Stark, he carefully instructed his children, "The man who passes the judgment, swings the sword."

The Bastard of Bolton met his end at Sansa's sword (and the north remembers).

As Sansa stares forlornly at the ruins of her home, her bannerman watch as she becomes winter personified like the Starks of Old and they rejoice (_the Starks are back in the north_).

(_A Stark must always be in Winterfell_, her father's voice whispers in her mind; as if it is this lesson meant for her).

Sansa Stark remembers.

Despite Catelyn Tully Stark's best efforts, the cool temper of a Stark remained frozen inside her eldest daughter, so she is determined to raise her to be a respectable lady, and she teaches her the ways of the Seven.

"Courtesy is a woman's armor," her Septa reprimanded and her mother had agreed.

She listens, she remembers, and she survives the cruel south wearing armor made of courtesy.

(They say the north is a frozen wasteland, and the south is a warm heartland.

But that is not true).

Sansa Stark remembers.

Robb, her sweet and reliable brother who shares her coloring, comforted her with lemon cakes and stories about a northern wolf maiden devouring the south in order to get her pack brothers and sisters home.

"Remember, little sister, no matter the distance and the cost, I will prowl the lands to protect you. Just like Father did for Aunt Lyanna," he said as she hugged him tearfully, scared of being abandoned and alone without her wolf pack.

Poor Robb did just that. And just like Father, he failed to bring a packsister suffering in the south back home.

Horrendous tales of a murdered king with a direwolf for a head and a murdered mother thrown in the river with a slit throat like a gutted fish are whispered.

Sansa never forgets the tale of the Red Wedding.

Sansa Stark remembers (and once again, she curses the southron lords).

It started by a jape made by Robb about his lack of honor. His comment slashed through Theon for it was reminder he was a Greyjoy, a kraken of Pyke, and he would never be a noble Stark.

"Starks do not belong in the South no more than a Greyjoy belongs in the North." Despite the ale on his breath and the red eyes, Theon managed to tell Sansa his plight solemnly.

Little Sansa knew it was unladylike for a noblewoman to retrieve her father's ward from a brothel, so her sweet smile and kind words tricked Jory Cassel into doing her bidding.

Theon is her foster brother, basically her brother—really he was another annoying older brother to her just like Robb and Jon; Theon teased her into a temper sometimes—though for all his teasing and bite, he could be surprisingly gentle towards her, always making her tears turn into tears of laughter; she was always careful to never mention her sisterly feelings about her father's ward to her unforgiving and begrudging lady mother (who was right about not trusting a Greyjoy).

Like a protective sister, she had him smuggled through a hidden passageway back into Winterfell in order for him to not have to face the ire and disgust from her lady mother.

With the reluctant help of her little sister, they helped him comfortably settle into his bed. He fell asleep to the comforting sounds of a sweet song and the lovely feeling of his little sister's hand running through his hair.

"Wolves belong in the north," Arya warned solemnly, her lips twisting into a sneer at the thought of her sister's dim fantasies of the south. Sansa lifted her eyes to meet her sister's and said nothing (_oh how she regrets not listening_).

Sansa will one day cry solemnly that her little brothers had died by her once loved foster brother.

Years later, Sansa will watch her kraken brother be executed (and once again, she curses the south for she blames the southern heat melting his almost northern heart because it was in the south he asked Robb to treat with the Greyjoys. It is the Ironborn that makes him Theon Turncloak but it is the Boltons that ruins him and calls him Reek).

Sansa Stark remembers.

Swift and silent Uncle Benjen had taken her by the hand to the crypts to pay their respects to the dead.

She loved it when he told her the histories of the Stark kings in the crypt. This is was their thing, and she selfishly held on to it.

"Be kind to your sister, Sansa, for you only have one of her in your lifetime," he said solemnly. Sansa does not fail to notice the regret in his eyes as he stared at his dead sister.

She has only one sister, and that sister is lost to her.

Years later, tales of a wrathful wolf with no name in Essos reaches Sansa.

She hopes hopes hopes.

When her sister never returns, Sansa pretends pretends pretends.

An uncle is also lost and never returned.

Sansa Stark remembers.

Sweet Bran with his ambitions to be a knight. Just before he climbed up the wall, he told her, "I'll become a knight and I'll protect you."

Sweet Bran fell that day, and so did his promise.

She has learned to not be angry with her sweet, lovely brother (_but dead_, her mind whispers cruelly) in her days at the Red Keep and the Vale.

Sansa learned there was no heroes (or knights) after all.

When she learns the fate of her brother on a weirwood throne in a tree, Sansa weeps for the sweet boy who wished to be a knight.

Sansa Stark remembers.

It comes as a shock to her that wild Rickon's first sentence is "Winter is Coming." It is not shock from the rest of the Stark; it is pride.

Rickon Stark will never know his sister Sansa had cried herself to sleep after a brutal day at the Red Keep with the stings of the beating and the sting of this memory.

Even with his Tully looks, he was still more a Stark than she ever would be.

Years later, when a wilder Rickon comes home to Winterfell, it is not the unicorn skin covering him nor is it his lips curled into a savage grin baring sharp teeth nor his wildling adoptive mother standing beside him like an unyielding force nor is it his band of warriors behind him nor is it his renouncement as heir apparent of Winterfell, it is the distant, cold greeting to his sister (who he only distantly remembers) that brings tears into her eyes.

She weeps and prays beneath the Heart Tree that night for Rickon, Bran, Father, Mother, Robb, Arya, Jon, never for herself.

Sansa Stark remembers.

Her most overlooked memory as a young girl is the one she holds firmly in her heart.

Her solemn and serious half-brother Jon with the looks and honor of a Stark (_with the name of Snow, not Stark,_ her mother had seethed many times).

He had found her crying in the glass gardens, sobbing she would never bring honor to the Stark name (_because I am too southron, too Tully, too naive, Arya had so, Jon_).

He pulled her into his arms, held her dearly to him as if she would break, kissing her forehead until she stopped crying.

In King's Landing, Sansa will unconsciously close her eyes to pretend he was there to smooth the fire-kissed hair out of her eyes like he did years ago.

She never thinks of Jon for her mind is full of survival in the lion's den—it hurts too much to think of her half-brother Jon, she is still too bitter that all of her brothers are dead, except him, and she will never see him again.

Until she becomes of bastardized stone, she thinks more of her brother the lord commander at the icy Wall with his brothers in black; he is the last Stark in the north, and she thinks he shall surely outlast them all.

_It would be so sweet to see him again_, she had thought.

(And years later, when she arrives to his castle on a dying horse, she thinks, _Safe_.)

(_Strong and always serious but kind and always attentive_) Jon Snow had looked her in the eyes and held her hand so tenderly.

"Let people underestimate you as a trout in the form of a tamed wolf. Sansa of the north, you are a Stark of Winterfell, a she-wolf of winter with the blood of the First Men _and_ the Kings of Winter. Never let yourself forget this lesson for the North remembers, and winter is coming."

Jon Snow knew something.

(Years later, her half-brother will die, and in his place, her cousin rises from his pyre.)

Standing by a dead mockingbird, she remembers the wisdom of Jon Snow's words.

She is Sansa Stark of Winterfell, the She-Wolf Who Howls When Winter Comes.

The Queen in the North (the Northmen shout); the Queen of Winter (the small folk crown her).

The Wolf Queen Who Refused to Kneel (the northerners cheers); the She-Wolf Who Snarls at Dragons (and the small folk praises).

The Red Wolf (the southern lords simpers to please the angered southern queen on the iron throne); the Queen of Ice and Snow (the southern common folk whispers).

There once was a little northern girl who became a broken southern bird who rose from the stone to finally dip back into to snow she was born from.

There once was a stone maiden reborn into the Queen of Winter with skin of steel.

She is Sansa Stark, and beware of the chill in her words and the ice that runs in her veins and her cold heart, for winter is coming.

**DISCLAIMER**:

I do not own the A Song of Ice and Fire series, it most definitely belongs to George R.R. Martin.

**BACKGROUND HISTORY ON THIS FIC**:

One day while listening to "Daniel in the Den" by Bastille, I was stunned into realization from some of the verses from the song. It corresponded beautifully with an idea that had been floating around in my head.

Also, this fic can be considered AU in some ways, and my interpretations/theories are rendered into this fic as well.

And my intake of Sana may be OOC at times, but hopefully nothing too slanderous to her character.

I love Sansa; she is my favorite character. I always wish for my darling redhead to be recognized as the potential Queen of Winter she is very likely to be, so here is my roundabout way of doing so.

Please read and review if you would like.


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